


Suits

by TwoBoys2Love



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sam/Dean - Freeform, Suits, Wincest - Freeform, Winchesters in suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 17:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoBoys2Love/pseuds/TwoBoys2Love
Summary: Suits the boys have worn over the years... and the feelings they inspired.





	Suits

**Author's Note:**

> As the final season airs... I'm reminded of why I initially was drawn to the first epic 5 seasons of the show. One of the things I've always thought about was the way Sam and Dean's lives are reflected in their suits. From that first uncomfortable suit... to the fitted and sleek ones they wear today. Here's to a great final season for all those who watch!
> 
> Love: Thank you leaf_zelindor for the fantastic art!! & my amazing beta, masja_17

**1996: Sam is 13, Dean is 17**

Hunters didn’t have many reasons to own suits. Sam didn’t have to be older than thirteen to know that. As far as he knew, they didn’t go to weddings or any other kind of family gathering for that matter.

Sam knew of one hunter’s funeral that his father had gone to. John Winchester didn’t own a suit. Even to go to a funeral, John had worn jeans and a button-down shirt. He’d put on clean jeans.

So, Sam was quite surprised when Dean came back to the motel room one day with a shoebox and a lopsided, clear plastic bag hanging over a black suit.

The book Sam had been attempting to read, thumped to the worn carpet when he sat up on his bed to get a better look.

There was a frown on Dean’s face; the kind of frown that looked like it was carved right into his stony expression. He tossed the bag onto the end of his bed and sighed, shifted his weight to his back foot and stared down at the suit.

Sam twisted to the side to crack his back and stared at his brother. Dean seemed different now that he was almost eighteen. Sam couldn’t put his finger on the changes. There was something about him that looked edgier, more _finished_. His shoulders were wider, his chest and arms more muscular. But his hands were the most different.

Looking down at his own hands, Sam flexed his fingers before curling them back into fists. His fingers were too long and too thin, his pale skin seemed to be stretched too tightly.

Dean’s hands were thicker, solid and strong. His skin was a burned, honey-brown, there were freckles scattered across the backs of his hands, some even making it as far as his fingers. His fingers wove together as he continued to stare down at the suit like it was going to try and escape at any moment.

“What’s that for?” Sam asked. He cleared his throat. Almost an entire day had flown by and he hadn’t had any reason to speak.

“Somethin’ I’m workin’ on with Dad.” It was the kind of answer Dean gave a lot now he was older. Vagaries and avoidance; that was what Sam heard most often.

“You don’t like it?” Sam dropped his feet over the side of the bed and nudged at his book with one socked foot.

Dean shrugged, bent and tore the plastic off the suit. He pulled the hanger out of the jacket then slipped the trousers free. There were a white dress shirt, a dark blue tie and a pair of dress socks.

“It’s gonna look stupid,” Dean muttered. After a deep sigh, he towed one boot off, then the other and glanced over at Sam.

There wasn’t a _second_ that Sam thought Dean would look stupid. Dean Winchester _never_ looked stupid; not as far as Sam was concerned. “It’ll be fine. You gotta… is it for work?”

There was never an answer to that question. Sam knew what his father did, what he’d taught his oldest son to do. Even when John needed Sam to do some research, he wouldn't say the words _hunter_ or _monster_. Usually, Sam went along with it, but he pushed Dean sometimes.

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin then tapped his fist to his lips a couple of times. “S’posed to meet Dad at six.”

Of course. Sam sighed as he looked over at his brother. Another night alone in a noisy motel room watching stupid movies on the old TV. Another meal alone, hell, he’d probably skip dinner and just get something at the vending machines.

Then Sam would climb into the bed farthest from the door and wait. His biggest fear, his most deeply buried secret was that Dean wouldn't come back one night. Even nudging at the thought made Sam’s eyes burn.

“You better get it on if you have to be somewhere by six.”

Dean flipped his wrist over and glanced at his watch. “Shit.”

Sam looked down at his feet as Dean's jacket then t-shirt landed on the bed. The sound of Dean shaking out the white shirt drew Sam's gaze up again. Dean was slipping his arms into the sleeves.

"Sammy? Could you make a pot of coffee?"

Relief washed over Sam as he slid off the bed and hurried over to the small pot near the TV. At least he had something to do that didn't involve watching Dean get dressed.

With the small pot clutched in one hand, Sam headed into the bathroom. He filled up the pot and went straight back to the machine to pour it in. "It'll just be a couple of minutes."

"Good, I'll take it with me," Dean said. He shucked his jeans and pulled the new pants on.

Sam made sure he watched until the coffee started dripping then headed over and sat down on the chair at the desk. He looked back over at Dean. Now, Sam didn't know much about suits but what Dean was wearing looked pretty good. Sam also knew that he shouldn't even notice things like that about his brother.

The black pants fit Dean perfectly. They made his legs look longer, his waist trimmer. The white shirt was a little too big but the brightness of it showed off Dean's lingering summer tan. He was struggling with the buttons, unfamiliar beneath his fingers. So quick with a gun, so clumsy with a button.

A couple of deep breaths steadied Sam's nerves and gave him a little more courage. "I can help."

It looked as though Dean would say no, but then he let out a frustrated growl and tossed his hands up in surrender.

At least thin fingers were good for something. Sam reached up and tugged both sides of the shirt a little to straighten it. After a moment's hesitation, Sam decided to start buttoning at the top. He pulled both sides of the collar together and buttoned it. The tops of his knuckles brushed against Dean's chin.

"This is gonna be uncomfortable," Dean complained. He buckled his belt then huffed and dropped his arms to his side.

"You'll be fine," Sam said quietly. He was trying not to pay attention to the brief brush of his skin against his brother's bare chest. Dean's skin seemed almost hot to the touch, or maybe that heat was all in the way Sam's nerves seemed to react to touching it.

The thing was, Sam didn't touch anyone else. He was always slightly uncomfortable under the occasional weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. Uncle Bobby hugged him on his birthdays. But Dean was different.

Reaching the bottom button on the shirt, Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling a little dry.

His fingers brushed the soft skin just above the waist of Dean's pants.

"Whoa, Sam!" Dean twisted away from Sam's hands and stared at him for a few moments before smiling slightly. "Tickled."

"Sorry," Sam muttered. He headed back to the bed to hide his fire-engine-red cheeks and the way his forehead had gone all damp with sweat.

Flopping face-down, Sam tucked the pillow under his head. He could hear Dean rustling about as he dressed and tried to think about anything but that.

"I only just got it on, and I can't wait to get it off," Dean muttered.

Sam rolled his head to the side and shrugged when he looked up at Dean. He'd never put on a suit. When you were thirteen, you didn't have to wear them, but it didn't look all that uncomfortable.

"I'll be back before Dad," Dean said as he tightened his tie. "I'm just goin' to check out a crime scene. Dad thinks he looks too old to be an investigator."

"He is old," Sam muttered.

"Ya won't think that when you're his age," Dean answered absent-mindedly.

Sam watched as Dean slipped the jacket on and smoothed the front of it down. The suit made Dean look older, as though he was going to work at some fancy office job or taking a girl out to an expensive restaurant. It was different, and Sam liked it. Of course, underneath the suit, Dean was still the same. His spiked, short hair and moss green eyes and the stupid freckles on his cheeks.

He grabbed his wallet off the table and slid it into his pocket then looked over at Sam. "Look okay?"

"Yeah, you look good," Sam answered. He smiled a little because it was true.

"Hey." Dean flashed a grin at his little brother. "Maybe I'll swing by the bar on the way home and see if a suit gets me a hot chick."

The smile on Sam's face faded slightly and he nodded. Of course, Dean would get a date. Looking like he did, it wasn't as though Dean _ever_ had any trouble getting attention.

Bending down, Dean slipped his feet into the dress shoes then straightened and walked over to tousle Sam's hair. "Ya jealous, Sammy?"

_Of what? _That was the first thing that popped into Sam's mind unbidden. Was he jealous of Dean getting the attention of a girl? Was he jealous of his brother having a night out? Was he jealous that someone else would have his older brother's attention? That one. That was the one that made a little pinch of pain appear in the center of Sam's chest. "No."

"Don't worry, Sammy. You're gonna break a lot of hearts when you're older." Dean's fingers trailed down Sam's cheek and then he spun and headed for the door. "Get some sleep."

Sam didn't bother saying goodbye and the moment the door closed behind Dean, he regretted saying nothing. He should always say something nice to Dean because there may be a time when he wouldn't make it home.

Anxiety already growing, Sam sighed and stared at the door. He wouldn't sleep before Dean was back. That was what he did. Dean went out; Sam stayed home.

=-=-=-=

**1998: Sam is 15, Dean is 19**

They were in a rented house somewhere in the Midwest. Dean had stopped paying attention to town names when he was about sixteen. It didn’t make things different if he knew what to call where they were.

“Hurry up, Sammy!” The chair squeaked on the beat-up linoleum as Dean kicked the chair out from the table so he could sit down. “The bus is gonna be here in ten minutes!”

“I know,” Sam called out from down the hall.

The house was smaller than most of the motel rooms they rented, but there were more than one room and a full-size fridge. It didn’t take much for a place to feel like a palace. Hell, the place even had a couch and Dean could count the number of times that he’d had a couch on one hand. Sam probably couldn’t remember _ever_ having one. Dean poked at the white plastic salt shaker on the table so it slid closer to the grey pepper shaker. Their condiments usually arrived in tiny paper packets.

“Sam! Jesus! You’re not getting married! You’re going to a soccer tournament.”

Sam hollered something from the bedroom that Dean couldn’t translate into English.

The only reason Sam was even able to go to the tournament was that they had actually stayed in… wherever-the-hell-they-were... for two months. Sam was a decent soccer player. He had been since he was little. What he lacked in technical skill he more than made up for in strength and speed. John Winchester’s training had seen to that.

The coach had wanted him on the team the first time he’d seen Sam on the field, and it had already become routine. Practice after school, games on weekends.

Dad had peeled out of the driveway earlier to help Bobby with a case. And here they were, alone as usual but with the sudden window of opportunity. Sam was heading out to a real soccer tournament for the first time in his life.

“This is stupid,” Sam said loud enough for Dean to hear.

“Get your ass out here before I come in there and drag you out.”

Their Dad would be pretty pissed off if he knew that Sam was going to be out of Dean’s sight for an entire thirty-six hours. But, _fuck_, how much trouble could Sam get into with an entire bus full of soccer players and three teachers?

There was no way Dean was setting his brother free in the wild without the appropriate precautions. Sam had a hex bag, a protection sigil drawn on to his shoulder with a permanent marker, and he came preloaded with an unfailing ability to defend himself that would shock the fuck out of his classmates. Dean smirked. Yeah, that was because of him. John Winchester might like to think that he had toughened Sam up, trained him like a soldier, but Sam only listened to his older brother. Dean… enjoyed that.

Boots scuffing against the floor signaled Sam’s emergence from the bedroom.

“Finally, fuck, Sammy. You’re a bit of a princess when it-” The words dropped dead in Dean’s throat when he looked up from the salt shaker.

Sam was wearing the school-blue dress pants and a white shirt that Dean had picked up for him at a local second-hand store. The shirt was a bit too big, loose around Sam’s middle like everything else he wore. It was already clear that Sam would grow up to be broad-shouldered and slim-wasted; he just seemed to get bigger and bigger as the summers passed. The pants fit him perfectly; they hugged his ass and fell down his long legs to pool at his ankles. It didn’t even matter that they were a little out of fashion because Sam was already the kind of kid who would look good in anything.

“What?” Sam’s eyes were a little fearful and he cringed as he spun around in a circle, chasing his tail.

“You look great, Sammy,” Dean said softly. He cleared the emotion out of his throat and walked over to grab hold of Sam’s tie and straighten the knot. There was nothing wrong with it, but he wanted to feel the warmth of Sam’s chest beneath the bright, white cotton. Long gone were the days of throwing his arm casually over Sam’s shoulders, or Sam curling up beside him on a shitty motel room bed to watch TV.

Sam was already tugging at the front of the shirt, shifting his shoulders in a figure-eight and scrunching up his face in that fidgety way of his.

For once, Dean allowed himself to press his hand to the front of Sam’s shirt. The warmth of his little brother’s body was reassuring and solid. “Kick their asses at the game. And don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t do.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pursed his lips as he blew out a breath. “That doesn’t leave much.”

“You’re _right_ because I’m the Winchester brother who knows how to have a good time.” Dean reached up and tousled Sam’s hair. He liked the way it felt as it slid through his fingers. The floral scent of Sam’s shampoo tickled Dean’s nose and he stepped back.

“I’ll be back tomorrow late, you sure that’s gonna be okay?” Chewing on the side of his bottom lip, Sam looked a little like he was ten years old all over again and worried about Dad finding out that he had used some of the grocery money to buy a book.

“It’s all good, Sammy. If something happens, you call me on my cell. When you're back, I’ll bring ya some jeans and a t-shirt and pick you up from the High School. Got it?” There always had to be a plan when they were trying to pull the wool over their Dad’s eyes.

Sam nodded once decisively and picked up his backpack. “Okay then. I’ll see you.”

“Have fun.” Dean shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he watched Sam head towards the door.

Fingers curled around the doorknob; Sam stopped. He tilted his head slightly and peered back over his shoulder. “Be careful, Dean. Okay?”

Dean winked and flashed Sam his best grin. “Always am.”

The look on Sam’s face wasn’t I-believe-you-Dean, but he was trying to smile. “Okay.”

And then Sam was gone, and the ridiculously tiny house suddenly felt like it was about a hundred acres too big. Dean puffed up his cheeks, then blew out a long, slow breath.

=-=-=-=

**2000: Sam is 18, Dean is 22**

Anger still simmered in Sam’s veins, and it wasn’t going anywhere soon. One month to his graduation and John Winchester had decided that things were getting out of hand and had piled them into the car to move them on past state lines and into a cheap ass motel that smelled of mold and stale booze.

One month.

Sam had even saved up enough money to buy a second-hand suit that fit him decently enough that he wouldn’t look like an idiot when he’d picked up his diploma. The pants were too long but the jacket fit his shoulders and combined with one of Dean’s old white dress shirts, it didn’t look ridiculous.

He shouldn’t have bothered. He should have known better than to _ever_ bother.

His diploma would be mailed to Bobby’s after the rest of his classmates got to march across a stage, shake hands with some locally famous person and throw their hats in the air. Not Sam. There was never anything normal for Sam.

Sam’s world was hunting, shitty motel rooms in rotten towns that no one really seemed to want to live in. It was John berating him for sleeping too long or not enough or too soundly. He trained like he was in the marine corps, studied monsters and lore and tried to avoid any extra time around his father. The only thing he looked forward to was school and time with his brother.

Time with Dean hadn’t been easy to come by. Sometime after Sam had turned sixteen, things had changed between him and his brother. They used to spend all their free time together. Sam couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the time spent with Dean in the woods, camping and cooking hot dogs over a small fire. It had been Dean who taught him how to ride a beat-up bike they had found by the side of the road. It had always been Dean who remembered Sam’s birthdays, wiped his tears, took care of him when he was sick… and kept him company late at night when he’d woken from a nightmare.

Sam tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the unevenly stuccoed ceiling. A shower started up somewhere in another room and Sam rolled his eyes. Back to listening to other people’s plumbing. The mattress on his bed was terrible, but Dean always got the bed closest to the door. It probably sucked as well.

The door shot open and banged against the wall so suddenly that Sam snatched the knife out from under his pillow and leaped to the floor. He landed lightly on his feet, in a fighting stance.

For a second, Dean looked like he had something serious to say, then his face morphed, and he grinned. “Nice, Sammy. You’re pretty quick when you’re scared shit-”

“-Can’t you come through a door like a normal fucking person?” Sam tossed the knife down on the bed and rolled the tension out of his shoulder as he straightened up.

“Whoa! What’s with the potty mouth?” Dean shrugged out of his jacket - their _Dad’s_ old jacket. That jacket irritated the hell out of Sam. It was too big, and it didn’t look right on Dean. Dean should be wearing something form-fitting, something that showed off his muscles.

Dean looked down at his chest and picked up the bottom of his t-shirt to pull it away from his stomach. “Do I got somethin’ on me?”

Staring, that was never a good idea. “No. Wait - why are you even here?”

The last Sam had heard, Dean and their Dad were heading to set up camp in the woods to kill something that Sam couldn’t remember the name of. If hunts didn’t involve him, and they rarely did, Sam had an unerring ability to tune out the details.

“Apparently, saltwater is like acid to a Kelpie so it was all over pretty quick.” Dean tossed his duffle bag onto his bed and walked over to the closet. “Bobby called. Dad’s gonna be helpin’ him out with something for a few days then he’ll swing back past here to pick us up again.”

“Great, so the big rush to take me out of school didn’t have to happen then, did it.” Sam threw himself back down onto his bed and was pleased when the springs made a horrendous screeching sound.

The closet door seemed to be stuck, and Dean thumped his fist against it before turning back to Sam. “Sam, you knew that was gonna happen. It always happens.”

“It’s not how everyone else lives, Dean. I know you like this kind of life, but I don’t. I want. I want…” Saying it out loud seemed like a bad idea. No matter what Sam said he wanted, wished for, or dreamed about, his life wasn’t going to be any different.

“What do you want, Sam?” Dean’s brows were drawn together, a furrow between them. He always looked like that when he was worried about something.

Sam sat up, dropped his legs back down to the dirty carpet and turned his back on Dean. Maybe they weren’t as close as they used to be, but Sam still found it difficult to lie to his brother. Dean always seemed to be able to read him like a book. “I just thought, this time, I might get to do something normal.”

“Normal? Like dressing up in a suit and goin’ to Grad?” There was a strange look on Dean’s face. It was stalled somewhere between a smirk and a scowl and Sam wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

“Yeah, I know you hate shit like that, but I was actually proud of myself, Dean. I finished something. Despite all the crap that I have to deal with living with you and Dad… I managed to graduate with good enough grades to get into Stanford.” That was quite a bit more information that Sam had intended to blurt out. He sat straight up and stared wide-eyed at his brother.

“You got into Stanford?” Dean’s expression had settled on blank and that’s the one that hates the most because it’s Dean’s way of making sure that no one knows what he’s thinking. His green eyes are a little too wide and the blank gives way to a slight smile.

“I was gonna tell you,” Sam said quickly. And he meant it; he told Dean everything. He might not have been able to come up with a good plan for telling his Dad, but he _knew_ he would tell Dean. “Full ride for the first four years.”

Blinking a few times, Dean nodded and ran a hand back and forth over his hair. “Holy shit, Sammy. That’s. That’s great.”

The sound of Dean’s voice is all wrong; it was rough, strained and sounded too thin and weak in the small room. If Sam didn’t know his brother, he’d think that there were tears welling up in his eyes. But Dean wouldn’t cry over something like school. “Thanks.”

The silence went on for a little too long, so Sam cleared his throat.

“So,” Dean said quietly. “Let’s go out and celebrate. Put that suit of yours on and I’ll take ya to dinner.”

“Dinner?” They didn’t go out for _dinner_. Well, they ate out… but they ate at diners and in the back of the car, they didn’t go to places that required suits. Hell, they didn’t even go to places where you’d want to _wear_ a suit. It would probably get stained by something nasty. 

"If you don't want to, it's fine."

But Dean's face didn't look as though it was fine. He looked as though there was some strange reason compelling him to take Sam out for dinner. It was probably one of those times when Dean was feeling the weight of Sam's life on his shoulders; even though it had never been and would never be his fault.

"I want to," Sam said quickly. 

That's how he ended up seated in a small restaurant across a table from his brother. They were _both_wearing their suits. In as much as Sam's looked like it was bought second hand and didn't fit, Dean's looked perfect. At least, that's what Sam thought. Sam was pretty sure that Dean had never looked better.

Fresh out of the shower, Dean still had rosy cheeks beneath his freckles. His damp hair, spiked up in little peaks, was shining in the dimly lit room. And the suit? Well, it fit like it had been tailored just for Dean. But that was because Dean was perfect. He had broad shoulders that were just the right width for his slender waist and narrow hips. His muscles were those of someone who worked for a living, not perfected by daily trips to a gym. He was Dean Winchester. He was Sam's older brother. He was one of the most gorgeous men Sam had ever seen.

"Sammy?"

Blinking a few times, Sam smiled slightly. Staring was never a good idea. "Yeah."

"You were a million miles away," Dean said. He picked up his glass and drank some water before setting it back down. "You thinkin' about school?"

"What? No. I guess," Sam said. No, staring wasn't good. Staring at your brother was worse. There were a lot of reasons for Sam to go away to school; getting away from Dean was a very good one. He couldn't live with himself if he ever let Dean know about… how _wrong_ he was. 

"You'll be great, Sam," Dean said it with such confidence.

Sam only wished he had half as much confidence in his choices. "Yeah. First time away from you though."

Why? Why was he even bringing that up? Was it that part inside of him that was so desperate for confirmation that Dean loved him? Sam had never cared much what his father thought of him, it had always been Dean's praise he had craved.

"You know how to take care of yourself," Dean said easily. He sat back in his chair and picked up the faux-leather menu. He flicked lazily through the pages and Sam suspected he was looking for a burger.

"I can," Sam agreed. As he reached for his own menu, he kept his eyes on Dean, searching for some sign that Dean would miss him when he left. Even the smallest hint that Dean didn't want Sam to leave for school could probably change his mind. It would be that easy.

When Dean's gaze flicked up to Sam's, he grinned. "They have a steak! I'm havin' steak, Sammy."

Sam let his gaze drift down to the menu even though he couldn't really focus on it. Of course, Dean didn't want him to stay. 

=-=-=-=

**2005: Sam is 22, Dean is 26**

Every time Dean looked over at the passenger seat and his gaze settled on Sam, his heart cracked open a little wider. He had never in his life _not_ known how to help Sam before, not known what to say... how to fix things.

There was no fixing Jess being dead.

There was no fixing Sam's heart.

The funeral had been a blur. Dean had stayed off to the side, eyes locked on Sam as he had met with Jess' family, hugged his friends, tried to keep it together. All Sam had asked of Dean was for him to drive to the cemetery after everyone else was long gone.  
It was something small that Dean could do, and he was desperate for something to do.  
He sat in the car while Sam stood at Jess' grave. He'd never seen Sam look so defeated and broken. He could see that Sam was crying; the kind of crying that made his nose run and his cheeks all blotchy. It was the kind of crying that Dean didn't know how to deal with in twenty-one-year-old Sam.

If Sam were still the scrawny kid who used to wake up sobbing from nightmares? That was easy. Dean would just throw the cover back on his bed and tuck Sam under his arm.

But twenty-one-year-old Sam. Fuck. Dean didn't know how to comfort him. How the hell did you comfort someone when the person they loved was dead?

And Sam… _Jesus_. Without Jess, he seemed so lost. He was angry and cold one moment, crying and hurt the next.

Sam finally turned away from the grave and began the walk back to the car. His steps were uneven and slow.

Dean took a deep breath and climbed out from behind the wheel. It was a beautiful day and there were blossoms falling from the trees. Dean had lost track of the time of year. That happened to him sometimes.

He leaned against the hood of the Impala and watched as Sam tried to pull himself together. Not that it mattered to Dean. When someone you loved died – nothing else seemed important anymore.

Dean loosened his tie and scratched at the stubble on his chin.

Sam didn't get in the car. He walked around to the front and sat down beside Dean.

"The trees are beautiful," Dean said. He saw Sam nod out the corner of his eye. "You know, Sam. I don't know what to say… or do... but anything you need. You know that, right?"

When Sam looked over at Dean, there were tears in his eyes again. He looked into Dean's eyes for a while then nodded once.

Fuck everything. Dean reached out and pulled Sam under his arm. It wasn't _so_ different from when Sam was a little kid, he still fit there; he just fit differently.

Maybe he'd done the right thing because Sam's face was suddenly pressed to Dean's neck and his fingers held onto the front of Dean's shirt like his life depended on it.

It _hurt_ to hold Sam so closely, but Dean had never let that stop him. He shifted to the side so he could tighten his arms and slid one hand up to cradle the back of Sam's skull.

Sam's sobs were almost silent, but his entire body shook. His right hand clawed restlessly at Dean's shirt, catching and letting go, his left hand slipped under Dean's jacket and was pressed to the small of his back.

"I got you, Sam." Because what the _fuck_ was Dean supposed to say?

It'll be okay?

Dean had let the person he loved leave once and he knew the pain of living without him and they weren't separated by death.

Just breathe? Calm down?

Because losing someone was something to be felt for a short time… right? Wrong, so very wrong.

Those fingers on Dean's shirt... _catch, release, catch_. Dean pressed his lips to his brother's sun-warmed hair, so silky and smooth. He still smelled of the shower Dean had forced him into after... Jess. He smelled like Sam again, not like _JessandSam_, not like smoke and burned flesh… just Sam.

Dean would hold Sam there where he'd caught him at the bottom of his sadness, he'd hold him there and then when Sam was ready, Dean would let him go again.

=-=-=-=

**2009: Sam is 26, Dean is 30**

The moment Dean walked out of the bathroom in his newly tailored suit, Sam knew that it was worth the money. It wasn't like he'd ever had a problem realizing his brother was gorgeous – Sam had always been overly aware of that. But the suit... it fit Dean like he was meant to wear one.

Sam sat at the table watching as Dean strode into the Library. _Watching_... as in… staring at his brother, watching every move.

The almost-black blue of the suit made Dean’s athletic frame look even more trim. The jacket was perfectly fitted to Dean's broad shoulders and tapered in slightly at the waist. The trousers were tight enough at Dean's thighs that his muscles weren't hidden, and the soft material pooled slightly where they met his black, leather dress boots.

Sam licked his lips and tore his gaze away to look down at the book he'd been reading long enough to try and catch his breath. His life would be a fuck of a lot easier if he _never_ had to look at Dean in a suit.

"What d'ya think?" Dean stopped at Sam's side and held out his hands in expectation.

"Good."

"Good? I pay this much for a suit because _you_ say that government types spend more money than me on clothes… and you tell me it's _good_?" Dean huffed and fussed with the collar on his crisp, white dress shirt.

Inhaling a deep breath was almost impossible. Sam's chest felt tight and his throat muscles were tense. He cleared his throat, his cough sounding as uncomfortable as he felt. Finally, he turned at looked up at his brother. "It's great. I like it. It's much more... professional."

Frowning, Dean shifted his weight to his back foot and looked down as he smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket.

Sam's eyes widened slightly. It was rare for Dean to look as though he wasn't a hundred percent confident in something, and he certainly didn't look convinced that the suit was a good choice.

The chair scraped on the stone floor as Sam moved it back so he could stand. He took another deep breath and turned to face Dean. He forced a warm smile onto his face and made a point of looking Dean up and down. "You look _great_, Dean."

The corner of Dean's mouth curved up slightly and his eyes brightened. "Yeah?"

Sam nodded. _God_. Why did Dean have to look the way he looked?

"It's more comfortable than the cheap one, you know. A bit," Dean said as he tugged at the tie nervously.

Stepping closer, Sam reached up and grasped the tie so he could straighten the knot. Dean had tied it in a Windsor, he always did, even though he claimed to know nothing about wearing formal dress. Sam slipped his fingers under the collar and smoothed it down, then pressed his hands to the lapels of the jacket. The dark material was cool and rough against his palms and Sam sighed as he slid his hands down.

The warmth of Dean's chest was heating Sam's palms, seeping into him and making him feel calmer and more excited at the same time. His entire life he'd been faced with conflicting feelings when it came to his brother: too much, too little, heat and cold, wanting him near and _wanting_ him.

When Sam looked up, Dean met his gaze instantly. His full lips were parted, his breath shallow and his green eyes dark and intense. The heat from that gaze bored into Sam and he found it difficult to breathe again. His hands were still pressed against his brother's chest, his fingers digging into the firmness of him.

Dean's tongue pushed forward between his parted lips and he wetted them.  
Sam sucked in a breath, his gaze darting between his brother's bottom lip and his eyes. _God._ Life wasn't fair. He leaned in a little closer, heat sizzling through him.

Dean looked down and away, and then he was gone, pacing towards the hallway. "Thanks, Sam."

It was thrown over his shoulder so casually that it felt a little like a slap to Sam.

_God._

=-=-=-=

**2012: Sam is 29, Dean is 33**

Dean had been flipping through the ten channels on the Motel’s TV for about an hour. Periodically, he stopped on a commercial or something else that caught his eyes. But there was a big, stinking pile of fuck-all worth watching.

The only reason Dean was even _in_ the room was because Sam had pissed him off. They’d come back from a hunt, Dean had a couple of beers then when he cracked open a bottle of whiskey, Sam started bitching. He’d gone on about how Dean drank too much; he’d put them at risk on the hunt and on and on.

Naturally, Dean had been really pissed off. They had one of their more intense arguments and Sam had stormed out claiming that maybe it was _his_ turn to be drunk and irresponsible.

Dean had told his little brother to fuck off. The door had slammed behind Sam’s departing ass and Dean had changed out of his suit and watched half of a bunch of really crappy TV shows while deliberately _not_ drinking to prove a point.

Oh, he wanted a drink. He usually wanted a drink. But, fuck. Why not? The way things had gone for them, Sam was lucky Dean hadn’t taken up heroin or Meth. There was a fuck of a lot of things that Dean would like to forget completely, and drinking gave him some of that.

The rattle of Sam’s key in the door startled Dean and he flicked over to the pay-per-view channel to some nasty looking porno that he’d glanced at earlier. It would piss Sam off.

Grinning, Dean tucked his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. Sam was still struggling with his key and there was _no_ freaking way that Dean was getting up off the bed to help.

After about a minute, the door swung inwards, and Sam stepped inside. “You couldn’t get off your ass and open the door for me?”

“Nope.” Still grinning, Dean glanced over at Sam. Then he sat straight up. “What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

It looked like Sam had slept in a ditch or been ravaged by a pack of weasels or some shit. His hair was a mess, the sleeve of his suit jacket was torn, and it looked like his trousers were muddy down one leg.

Chuckling, Dean tapped the remote to turn the tv off, reached over and turned the lamp on. His smile faded quickly.

“What the _hell_, Sam?”

It was worse than Dean had realized. Sam’s lip was split, there were scratches and scrapes all over his face. The _mud_ on Sam’s trousers was red and looked a hell of a lot like blood.

And Sam? Well, Sam was swaying like he’d hit his alcohol limit about ten drinks before he was smart enough to quit.

“Leave me alone,” Sam muttered. He turned clumsily and closed the door then fumbled with the lock until it clicked shut.

“What happened? You get your ass handed to you by a two-year-old?” Once he’d figured out that Sam wasn’t fatally wounded Dean went right back to feeling regular-old-pissed-off.

“Fuck off, Dean.” When Sam turned around, he fixed his brother with a steely gaze before smiling coldly.

“Okay, asshole. That's enough attitude for one night.” Dean swung his legs off the bed, stood and headed over to drag Sam towards the closest chair. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Sam tried to shake off his brother’s hands, but he ended up stumbling and sitting down heavily on the rickety, wooden chair. When he looked up at Dean there was venom in his stare.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn place,” Dean snarled.

“So.” Sam leaned heavily on the table and reached out for the bottle of whiskey that Dean had left there earlier.

“_Oh_ no you don’t.” Dean snatched the bottle out of Sam’s reach and walked over to set it in his duffel bag. “You’ve had enough for one night.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Sam snarled as he slumped back into the chair.

“I’m sober,” Dean said smugly. Being able to say that made half a night without alcohol well worth it.

Sam let out a caustic laugh. “You’re _never_ sober. What’s the occasion?”

“My brother’s an idiot, that’s the occasion,” Dean retorted. He bent to retrieve the first aid kit from his duffel bag and then headed back to the table and tossed it down.

“You drink every day and it’s normal, I get drunk and I’m an idiot. _That_ makes no sense,” Sam muttered. He pushed clumsily at the hair that had fallen into his eyes.

“I’m not drunk-off-my-ass every day. Obviously, _you_ can’t hold your liquor.”

Sam made a dismissive snorting sound and struggled out of his jacket. After a while, he pulled his arms free and let the suit jacket fall on the floor.

“Nice,” murmured Dean.

“What?” Sam squinted up at his brother.

“Let me clean up your lip.”

“It’s fine.” But when Sam wiped at his mouth he winced in pain. Some fresh drops of blood splattered down onto the white of Sam's shirt.

“Right,” Dean snapped. “Just shut up, sit still for five minutes and I’ll clean up the mess you made of yourself.”

After a few seconds of silence from Sam, Dean figured it was safe to continue. He opened the small plastic box and pulled out some alcohol wipes. They were fiddly little fuckers and it took Dean some time to get the damn thing out of the package.

Sam huffed impatiently once but he didn’t say anything. At the first touch of the wipe, Sam hissed in pain and jerked back.

“Oh, stop it,” Dean said. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “You’ve been through way worse than this.”

“Lips are one of the worst. They’re one of the most sensitive parts of the body.” Sam hiccupped a couple of times while Dean stared at him.

“What did you say - you know what? Never Mind.” The last thing that Dean wanted was to get into some bizarre conversation with Sam when he was drunk. He particularly didn't want to talk about Sam's lips. Ever.

“Didn’t do this to myself,” Sam murmured as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hmm?” Dean wasn’t really listening. He was trying to clean all the dirt out of the cut on his brother’s lip while not focussing on the subtle curve of them, the way the smooth skin felt when his finger brushed against it.

Sam reached up and grabbed Dean’s hand to stop him so he could speak. “I didn’t _do_ this to myself.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed. He didn’t really feel like arguing with his brother for the rest of the night.

“I mean it.” Even though Sam let go of Dean’s wrist, he didn’t look like he wanted any more fuss made over his lip.

“Okay," Dean repeated. “I'll bite. Who did this to you?” Maybe there was a part of Dean that was mildly curious, even if he wouldn’t admit it to Sam.

“A homophobic asshole,” Sam spat.

“A what?” Dean tossed the wipe onto the table and sat down on the other chair.

“Someone who hates gay people-”

“I know _what_ a homophobe is,” Dean grumbled. “Why did he beat the shit out of _you_?”

“He didn’t beat the _shit_ out of me,” Sam protested. “You should see him. I think I broke his jaw and he was -”

“Sam. You’re missing the point of the question.” Sam could be rambly when he was sober and adding alcohol _sure_ didn’t help.

“What was the question?” A little bleary-eyed, Sam stared over at Dean and let out a big sigh. He reached up and unbuttoned the top three buttons on his dress shirt.

Rubbing his forehead, Dean took a deep breath. It was going to be a long damn conversation if Sam was going to undress. “Why did this random guy pick a fight with you?”

“Picked up a guy at the bar and this idiot didn’t like it. Fucker followed us outside -”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean stood up and took an unconscious step backward. “What? Did you just tell me you picked up a dude?” There were a lot of things running through Dean’s mind all at once and none of them made any sense at all.

Looking a little weary, Sam blinked up at his brother for a few moments. Realization seemed to dawn on him, and he rubbed at the stubble on his jaw.

“Well?” Dean’s eyes widened and he held out his hands helplessly. Even Sam didn’t get to say shit like that and then go quiet.

“I - picked up a guy. Some dude saw us leave together. He followed us into the alley and started a fight,” Sam said in one breath. He cleared his throat and looked a little unsettled.

“An alley!” Dean exclaimed.

“What?”

“You were gonna -” Dean gestured wildly because he wasn’t ready to actually talk about his brother’s sex life. “In an alley?”

For a few moments, Sam sat there frozen, looking a little confused. Then he started to laugh. He laughed hard enough that his lip hurt, and he groaned and pressed his fingers to it.

“What!?” Dean was seriously on the verge of losing his shit. Maybe Sam wasn’t drunk so much as completely mental. Either way, he wasn’t speaking Dean’s language.

It took a while for Sam to stop laughing, then he had a brief coughing fit. “Dude. I tell you I picked up a guy and you’re shocked that we were headed to an alley?”

“Well,” Dean said quickly. “It’s… it’s gross.” For some reason, Dean just could _not_ get his mind wrapped around Sam in an alley getting... giving... “No. Just no.”

“You’ve never had a -”

“Sam! We are _not_ having this conversation.” Dean decided that he was in _way_ over his head. And he absolutely didn’t like the way he could feel tension creeping into his spine at the thought of his little brother with some... guy.

Sam chuckled again, but he didn’t look quite as pleased with himself. “Dude, c’mon.”

“I’ve never done anything in an alley. I have too much respect for myself and for whoever I'm with,” Dean said without even really thinking about it. He kind of regretted his choice of words because he could see by the way Sam’s expression shifted that he would be made to pay.

“Seriously? Respect?” Sam looked taken aback and scoffed at Dean before averting his gaze.

“Yes, respect, Sam. You got a problem with that?” Folding his arms across his chest, Dean tried to loosen his shoulders. _Jesus_, why did this all matter so much? Sam had done stupid shit before and when it really came down to it, Dean was willing to buy into the theory that sexuality was more fluid than defined. Life was just like that.

Sam folded his own arms and glared up at Dean. “The triplets?”

“They were fine with it.”

“And the waitress with the blue convertible?” Sam’s eyebrow had all but disappeared into his hairline.

“A car is a perfectly acceptable place for sex. _If_ it’s your own car which means you are not _ever_ doing anything in the Impala. Ever.”

“‘Cause I picked up a guy?” Sam kicked the chair back, stood and leaned his knuckles on the table in front of him.

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Dean’s heartbeat had ramped up to the speed at which it became difficult to distinguish one pulse in his veins from another and he could feel the niggling feeling of possessiveness rearing its head. “I'm still not having this discussion and you can't have sex in my car with anyone and you shouldn't do it in an alley.”

Shaking his head slowly, Sam sighed. “I never thought you’d be the kind of person who would have a problem with someone’s sexuality. After some of the things I've heard you talk about. Lightning should strike your ass right about now.”

There might have been some small part of Dean that wanted to actually move towards the door, but he stopped at a glance towards the curtains. “Sam, get over yourself. I’m not judging you for. I’m just not. I’m saying an alley is stupid.”

It wasn’t about the alley. Dean already knew that, but this had become one of those slippery slopes when he realized entirely too late how much danger he was in. There was no turning back once Sam’s feathers were ruffled.

“You’re an ass, Dean. D’you have a problem with me seein’ men? Because if you do? We might as well get _that_ out of the way now so I can leave.”

The conversation had escalated entirely too quickly, and Dean took a moment to breathe and roll his aching neck to the side. It wasn’t like he could lie. And that was the fucking problem, right there.

_That_ was the problem. He couldn’t say that it didn’t bother him Sam had picked up a guy. It bothered the _hell_ out of him. Just not for the reason his brother seemed to think. “Sam, I don’t have a problem with anything.”

Going to bed seemed like a really good idea. Enough had been said already and Dean knew that, when it came to arguing, he usually lost to his little brother. It was all those damned pre-law classes or some shit. Sam talked circles around him sometimes.

“Oh no,” Sam said as he grabbed his brother’s forearm. “You don’t get a pass on this one.”

“Let _go_ of me, Sam.” Dean hoped he sounded as pissed off and tense as he felt because it just might be enough to make Sam leave him alone.

“You’re lying,” Sam said. His gaze was softer, almost resigned and after a while, he let go of Dean’s arm.

“You’re drunk. I’m tired and bored. Let’s just call it a night before someone says something they regret.” Dean walked over to the door and double-checked the lock. It was a habit, not mistrust. Even drunk Sam was the only person in the world Dean trusted.

“I’m not that drunk.” Sam undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt, slipped it off and hung it over the chair.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to a bruise that was already discoloring Sam’s ribcage. Dean pointed at the bruise. “Looks painful.”

For a few heartbeats, Sam just stood there and then he poked at the bruised area gingerly. “The guy kicked me.”

Wincing, Dean took a step closer. He hated it when Sam was hurt; he’d always rather take the punishment himself. “Ribs okay?”

After a tentative deep breath, Sam nodded.

Dean tried to look away from his brother’s muscular chest, but he couldn’t resist taking another step closer. He reached out and ran his fingertips over the bruise.

Sam knocked his brother’s hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Anger and hurt slammed together in Dean’s chest and he reacted before he even thought about it. He grabbed Sam’s wrist in mid-air and twisted his arm up behind his back.

The maneuver knocked Sam off balance, and he fell forward into the wall. He grunted as Dean fell against his back.

“Get the _fuck_ off me,” Sam yelled. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his lips were damp with spit.

“Calm down,” Dean said gruffly. Things had gone from bad to really shitty and he wasn’t sure how to back out of the hole he’d helped them both to dig.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. Let me go.” Twisting his shoulders, Sam managed to free his arm and spin around in his brother’s hold.

Suddenly, they were face to face, chest to chest and Sam’s sharp hip bone was digging into Dean’s side.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous rattled its way through Dean. It was a cool burn, something just out of reach; something tempting him.

_Jesus._

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam asked in a weak voice. There was no conviction behind the question. Maybe he didn't really want to know.

Dean didn’t really want to know. “I don’t… don’t do that anymore.”

“What?” Looking genuinely confused and slightly calmer, Sam stopped trying to escape from the circle of Dean’s arms.

“Don’t pick up strangers and…” He still couldn’t say it because the idea of some guy’s filthy hands on Sam’s pale skin made Dean feel a little nauseous.

The furrows in Sam’s brow had deepened and he squared his shoulders as though readying himself for a fight.

“You do.”

“Not so much anymore.”

Sam probably hadn’t noticed. Hell, _Dean_ hadn’t even noticed until that moment. He just didn’t _want_ one-night stands.

“Good for you,” Sam muttered. “I’m making up for lost time.”

“Don’t do it.” The words were stuck on repeat in Dean’s mind and he slid his hand forward until it covered the bruise gently.

Sam’s glistening lips parted, and his eyes widened. Then he sighed and it was like all the fight leaked out of him in that warm exhale. “Sometimes, I really hate you, Dean.”

There was no reason for Dean to believe that Sam actually meant that. It stung though. It stung like a fucker. “Well, I don’t hate you.”

There was something odd in Sam’s expression. He looked _clear_. His eyes seemed sharp and focused. It was a little unnerving. Dean would rather face drunk Sam. That particular version of his brother was a little less intense.

When he finally began to feel a little uncomfortable under his brother’s gaze, Dean shrugged. “It’s true.”

“I know that,” Sam said after a while. His voice seemed smaller; a bit thinner.

For some reason, Dean couldn’t get the idea of some guy’s hands on his brother out of his head. It felt all kinds of wrong. And it felt wrong that it felt wrong. No one messed with Dean’s head quite the way his little brother did. It was a talent.

Dean raised his hand from Sam's side and slid the pad of his thumb along Sam’s rosy cheek then let it fall to his side. “Go to bed.”

Sam had always moved quickly, even when he was drunk, and Dean wasn’t even sure his brother was all that drunk anymore.

He wasn’t sure because Sam jumped into motion so quickly that he was on Dean before he managed to get a breath in.

The entire weight of Sam’s body slammed into Dean and there were suddenly limbs everywhere. Dean’s head hit something, his ass collided with a chair and then it felt like they were flying through the air.

“Stop telling me what to do,” Sam growled as he landed on top of Dean.

The air shot out of Dean’s lungs but at least he had landed on the damn bed. There was a forearm across his throat and Sam’s knee was creating a hell of a cramp in Dean’s thigh.

“What the _fuck_, Sam?” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and forced it up and off his neck. He’d had enough, and Sam still had that look in his eyes and Dean’s heart was starting to crack a little.

Sam froze and stared into his brother’s eye with an intensity that hadn’t been there for a very long time. “Don’t...”

The protective doors shuttered down in Dean's chest. No. It was wrong to feel _anything_ for Sam… _No._ "Sam. Get off."

There must have been something in Dean's voice that betrayed how close to the precipice of anger he was.

Sam moved quickly. He scrambled to his feet and paced away from the bed.

For a moment, Dean thought that Sam was going to leave, then his trajectory changed, and he threw himself down on the other bed.

When Dean could finally breathe without struggling, he turned his head so he could see Sam.

Sam's gaze was locked on Dean. There were tears slipping across his nose and cheek. Dean watched as a big, fat one plunked down onto the ghastly orange quilt. The horrible part was the way that Sam looked completely freaking lost.

Sam had been through a lot of shit over the years and he'd never looked like he was just _done_ before. He looked as though he didn't think he'd have enough energy to ever take another step like breathing was taking all his concentration. He looked heartbroken and lonely.

Dean sat up slowly, thankful his heart was back to its slow and steady rhythm. "It's okay, Sam."

Sam shook his head once, then rolled to face the window.

It took every bit of willpower left in Dean's body to stay where he was, to _not_ go over and snatch Sam into his arms and tell him everything. He wanted to tell him why it mattered that another man had touched Sam, he wanted to tell Sam why he had always needed him there hunting at his side.

_Fuck,_ he _wanted_ to tell Sam.

But he didn't.

There was nothing good about the thing that Dean had kept from his brother over the years. He had _no_ right to even consider tearing Sam's life apart with all the messed-up shit that was in his head.

So. What Dean did was wait until Sam was asleep and pull the quilt over him.

=-=-=-=

**2016: Sam is 33, Dean is 37**

After Dean watched his mom walk out of the bunker to work with Ketch, he headed straight for the whiskey decanter. He was already pouring himself a drink when he heard the huge, warded door slam shut. He threw back the whiskey and loosened his tie with the other hand. It felt more like a noose than a tie - but that could just be the pile of shit that seemed to be raining down on him.

It was instinct for Dean to cock his head to the side and listen for Sam to slide the locks into place. His brother’s boots clunked as he came back down the stairs and Dean squared his shoulders. He scanned through his usual excuses for not wanting to _talk_, settling on _there was no point._

“You okay, Dean?”

“I do _not_ want to talk about it, Sam.” The whiskey tasted good. Ketch had good taste.

“We could learn a lot from them.”

The British Men of _Fucking_ Letters. When Dean glanced up, Sam had planted himself on the corner of the huge book-covered table. Sam looked tired and a little worn around the edges. His dark blue suit was perfectly tailored, and Dean found himself wondering when that had happened. It fitted Sam’s broad shoulders perfectly, the sleeves of the jacket were a little long, just the way Sam liked them. His shoulder-length hair just reached the jacket.

Tearing his gaze away, Dean looked down at the glass he was holding as he filled it again. “Look, Sam. I was itchin’ to hunt and Ketch was there. I’m not gettin’ into bed with those posh assholes.”

Sam’s gaze lingered on Dean for a few moments and then slid away reluctantly. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m going to work with them. You don’t want to? That’s fine.”

“Guess that shouldn't surprise me.” Dean poured himself another whiskey and realized there wasn’t close to enough alcohol in the bunker for the conversation he was getting into.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There was defensiveness in Sam’s voice and Dean didn’t like it. It was a bad sign.

“Nothin’.” It was a cop-out, but Dean was in no mood for playing truth or dare.

“We can't do our own thing?” Sam folded his arms across his chest and did that irritating shoulder shrug thing he did when he was about to get too stubborn for his own good.

“You always do,” Dean muttered before he thought about it. _Shit._. It was an invitation to climb in the ring, or, at least, that’s how Sam would see it.

“Dean-”

“-no, I get it, Sam. You’re gonna work with Mom. You. Well, you never had time with her, I get that you want to do it now. Just don't expect me to show up at the party.” Dean felt a little out of breath and he _really_ needed to get away from his brother.

He snagged the bottle off the table and turned to head towards his room. There was a turntable and some old Rock waiting for him behind a closed, locked and little brother proof door. He needed to get out of the monkey suit and back into a comfortable pair of jeans.

But he was stopped short when Sam’s long, thin fingers cuffed his wrist. “Dean. Stop.”

Dean shook off his brother’s grip and leaned down into Sam’s personal space. “You need to leave me alone.”

“Is that what you’re scared of?”

Dean frowned as the question slithered into his brain and dug its claws in. “What?”

When Sam stood, he pressed forward into Dean.

Dean held his ground even though it felt uncomfortable as hell. He hated having to look up at his brother, but he did it anyway with a dash of defiance. “Maybe, it’s the right move. What the fuck do I know?”

Sam frowned and shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re just saying what you think I want to hear.”

“That’s not true.”

They were getting nowhere, and Dean was getting more and more frustrated.

“Dean?”

“I’m tired, Sam. Do what you want.” When Dean tried to step back, Sam grabbed both of his wrists.

“Dean? I need you to hear something,” Sam said quietly.

“What?” It had reached the point where Dean would say anything to get away from his brother.

“Are you listening?” Sam ducked his head down slightly and waited for Dean to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” Dean snapped. When he looked up, his breath caught somewhere in his chest. Sam’s eyes were wide, his pupils huge. Dean felt Sam’s breath, warm and sweet on his face.

“_No one_ is more important to me than you are. No one comes before you.” There was something heavy and intense in Sam’s voice. The words felt weighty as they settled in Dean’s brain. They felt important… significant.

Dean was silent for a while, he stared into his brother's eyes and tried to keep sucking in one breath after another.

He _was_ scared he didn’t matter to Sam. It was terrifying to think about because Dean didn’t know how to go forward without his brother. And, it was stupid, embarrassing and something so uncomfortable to think about that Dean kept it hidden away like a dirty secret. He nodded once and tried to step away, but Sam wouldn’t let him.

The wrinkles in Sam’s brow deepened and his fingers dug hard into Dean’s wrists. “God, Dean. Why is it so hard to believe that I’m always gonna be here?”

Dean bit down on the side of his bottom lip. There was an easy answer, but Dean would never utter the words. He’d lost everyone. Why would Sam stay? Why would Sam choose to be with him? “You want things to change. I get it. You can have the life you want."

Sam was already shaking his head. “You’re wrong. You’re fucking stubborn and come off confident as fuck, but you can be really clueless.”

It wasn’t a clear insult, but Dean’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure it all out.

Then, he wasn’t thinking at all because Sam’s lips were closing in on his. He couldn’t move away; Sam’s stupidly long fingers still had a firm hold on him. A weird burn started in Dean’s belly like a fuse was lit and the moment Sam’s lips touched his, the fuse ignited a burn that made Dean’s knees weak.

Dean sighed into Sam’s mouth and when he wanted to reach for Sam, he realized he was still holding a glass and a whiskey bottle.

Sam was kissing him, and he wanted to get his hands on his little brother’s body.

Something snapped in Dean, something deep and dark and hidden away and he didn’t like the way it felt. He pushed back from his brother, tearing away from the heat and sweetness of that mouth he’d avoided thinking about for years.

The way Sam flinched was impossible to miss even though he tried to hide it. It was like a punch in the gut for Dean and sent him stumbling back a few more steps. His brain felt like it was misfiring, and he felt sick to his stomach. What the _hell_ was he doing?

“Dean-”

“-No, Sam.” It was something that Dean rarely said to his brother because, honestly, the sun and the moon and everything else could fuck right off as long as Sam stayed around. But not this. This was a door that Dean couldn’t open without crashing right the fuck through it and ruining everything. The man standing there in that suit, looking terrified and stubborn at the same time, that man was Dean’s little brother and he was supposed to take care of him. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

Sam’s bottom lip trembled slightly, and he covered the emotion by reaching up to pull the knot in his tie loose. After struggling with it for a few moments, he dragged his hand across his mouth, shifted his weight and tilted his head slightly. His eyes darted down to Dean’s shoes, lingered a moment then flicked back up to Dean’s face. He nodded almost imperceptibly, shame slashed dark and red across his cheeks.

Still holding a tumbler in one hand and the Whiskey decanter in the other, Dean swallowed in a dry throat then nodded once and turned on his heel. It had been a long time since he’d felt like he wanted to drink himself unconscious, alone, behind a locked door.

=-=-=-=

**Now**

The demon had flung itself as Dean, knife drawn, and the blade has sliced through the front of his shirt. It was painful as hell, but Dean had been cut up enough times to know that it wasn't all that bad.

The next few seconds had passed like wildfire. Sam had let out an inhuman yell and dove at the demon with his own blade. As Dean had watched, the sharp silver had sliced straight into the Demon's chest and lodged in its heart. There was a bright, white flash of light that made Dean's lashes flutter as he staggered backward.

Then it was done.

Then… Sam was on him. His hands were unbuttoning Dean's shirt, pulling the material aside so he could check the wound.

"It's fine, Sammy."

But it didn't look fine. Sam didn't look fine. Sam looked one step short of insane with worry.

"Sam. Look at me."

Very slowly, Sam's gaze pulled away from the red stain that was spreading on his brother's dress shirt and moved to his eyes.

"I'm _fine_, Sam. I'm fine." Dean hesitated a moment, then laid a gentle palm over Sam's thumping heart.

For a long time, Sam's gaze was locked with his brother's, then he finally looked back down at the cut, nodded and headed for the car.

Back at the bunker, Dean was in his room when Sam found him again. He didn't knock, he just walked in and kicked the door shut behind him. He didn't say a word, just reached up and tugged on Dean's tie to loosen it.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking care of that cut."

"It's fine," Dean muttered as he stood there as Sam unknotted his tie because it was always nearly impossible for him to push Sam's touch away.

"You're bleeding."

"I've had worse."

"That's not really the point." But Sam dropped his hand to his brother's shirt and simply left it there, like a fucking lead weight over Dean's heart.

"What _is_ the point?" Dean didn't always know what Sam was getting at, but he could always sense when there was _something_ that Sam wanted off his chest.

"I'm tired of this." Waving his free hand at the red bloom on Dean's dress shirt, Sam shook his head. "I'm tired of having to watch you get cut up and broken. I'm tired of doing this work and wondering if you'll be alive."

"Like a cat, Sammy. I always bounce-"

"I'm not fucking joking." There was a frown on Sam's face, his jaw tight as he clenched his teeth.

He wasn't joking, but that was Dean's way to try and _not_ talk about the things he couldn't face. "Not now."

"You're my brother, I can't keep doing this."

"Don't be stupid." Dean finally stepped out from under Sam's hand and yanked his tie the rest of the way off before throwing it in the general direction of his bed.

"It's not stupid. I'm... I'm done, Dean. I can't keep doing this. It needs to stop." The look on Sam's face was somewhere on the trail between lost and found. "I can't lose you. And I can't keep watching you die a little bit at a time."

"Sam, I always fix things. I always take care of you." It was his answer to everything. He took care of Sam, he was the one who made sure someone was always there to care about Sam, worry about him, think about him. So, what if Sam didn't really know that, it didn’t stop it from happening.

"Then take care of me!" Sam yelled.

The words hung in the air for a moment then slammed into Dean's chest like as many knife blades. He stepped back, heart shivering against his rib cage. He let all the emotion he had bottled up trying to claw its way up his throat. There was so much buried in him. Sam and his nightmares pressed sticky and hot to Dean's side on a summer night. Teenage Sam, all limbs and attitude, standing in the water at the lake and smiling back at Dean over his shoulder. The wet heat of Sam's tears soaking into Dean's shirt as he held him. Years of smiles Dean had to turn away from, hugs he retreated from first, the terror of looking down at Sam's closed eyes and not knowing if he would ever open them.

Tilting his head slightly, Dean frowned.

Then Sam’s lips were on his and Dean’s entire body felt like it had been set on fire. His fingers tightened on Sam’s arm at the same time as alarms were going off in his head.

But his mouth moved, his lips parted, and he dug his nails into the flesh of Sam’s forearm.

Kissing Sam shouldn’t feel like it did. Kissing Sam wasn’t taking care of his little brother. Someone should be punching someone, or they should be squabbling like twelve-year-olds. But this…

Sam’s lips were soft, the kiss was warm and wet and sent tingling sensations racing down Dean’s spine.

But, Sam.

Dean pulled back as far as he could and blinked up at his brother. Words wouldn’t come and he ended up just staring. What the _fuck_ was he supposed to say?

Sam took a deep breath and swallowed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, but he stayed right where he was.

His stupid long body loomed in front of Dean. He always seemed so much taller up close, and he was _too_ close. But that solid presence felt good. It felt like, for once, Dean didn’t have to worry about anything. Like if Sam wasn’t there holding him down, he might fly right off the merry go round.

Dean steeled himself for whatever response might be forthcoming. Hell. There was nothing in his head that was making any sense so he figured Sam must be feeling the same way.

“That was...” Sam’s brow furrowed as though he was trying to come up with the right word.

“I. We’re. Brothers.”

“I know.”

“I’m - it’s. Well.” Dean let go of Sam’s arm and his hands hovered in mid-air for a few moments before he let them fall to his sides.

“Did you hate it?” That wide-eyed look was back on Sam’s face again.

It was that same look that always got Dean in trouble. It always made him tell the truth and when he didn’t want to do that he usually walked away. Standing there with Sam pressed into him, walking away wasn’t an option. So, that meant Dean was pretty much fucked, at least in terms of having to tell the truth. He swallowed. He tried to tear his gaze away from his brother's wide, hazel eyes and then he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Sam let out a breath and his trembling fingers reached up and ghosted over Dean’s eyebrow, down his cheek then along his jaw. His gaze followed his fingers then his lashes fell to his cheeks.

The touch of those fingers, shaking and warm, felt a million times more intimate than the kiss. There was something in Sam’s touch that made Dean’s heart feel heavier and stronger. He couldn't stop looking at Sam. His face was inches away, long, dark lashes against ruddy cheeks. There were the moles Dean knew like the back of his own hand, the bow of Sam’s lips and the slightly upturned nose. He had looked at his brother’s face almost every day of his life, but it seemed very different at that moment.

The pressure of Sam’s hand disappeared from Dean’s jaw and settled on his chest again and the heat of it seeped through into Dean’s skin like it was branding him. He’d feel that forever - it wouldn’t matter what happened next. That heavyweight of Sam’s touch would just _be_ there.

When Sam blinked his eyes open, his lips turned up slightly. “You didn’t lie.”

It took a few moments and an intense frown for Dean to figure out what Sam meant. But he hadn’t lied because he hadn’t been able to walk away.

“This could be okay, you know. Please," Sam said so softly it was almost a whisper. "Or I have to-"

Dean wasn't going to let Sam leave, or move, or die or any of the million other ways that sentence could finish.

His mouth slammed into Sam's at the same time as his hands grabbed Sam's biceps. They stumbled back a step and Sam landed against the wall so hard that his breath puffed out into the kiss.

Dean's heart lurched and he slid a hand up into Sam's hair. His mouth... _God_... Sam's mouth was hot, smooth, soft, velvet and _kissing him back_.

Heat arced through Dean's body, sparking from nerve to nerve and making him tremble until he had to pull back from the kiss to try and breathe Their lips were still close enough together that Dean was pretty sure he could feel the heat radiating from Sam’s. “We’re brothers.”

“You followin’ all the rules now?” The expression on Sam’s face showed that he meant it as a serious question. And Dean couldn’t help wondering how they got there. How the hell did they get to a place where he was so close to Sam, touching his chest, looking up into those familiar eyes.

“You’re my brother.” Dean’s voice cracked and he swung an arm over Sam’s shoulders and crushed him in an embrace that felt like it had been coming for a thousand years.

“It’s okay,” Sam murmured into his brother’s shoulder. His finger slipped under the lapels of Dean's suit jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, pausing until Dean lowered his arms and letting it fall to the floor.

"Sam." All those years of watching Sam, keeping him in his sights, caring about him too much and letting him know too little were tearing Dean up inside.

Shaking fingers worked on the buttons on Dean's shirt, parting the white cotton then pressing against his skin.

"Sam." That name had passed Dean's lips a million times and never had it sounded more like a prayer than it did at that moment. Because the heat of those fingertips, the shock waves that feather-light touch sent through Dean's body were enough to make his heart give out on the spot.

Sam just shook his head and let his palms smooth across Dean's collar bone and down his side. His fingers slipped past the new cut, tender and cautious. He was touching Dean like he was memorizing every scar, every wrinkle, every inch of his flesh. His fingers fluttered over the cut that ran over Dean's pec, lingering there for a gentle moment before moving again.

Every part of Dean's body came alive under his brother's touch. It was why he had avoided touching Sam for so long, avoided the feel of that heated skin, the way his muscles pressed up from under his flesh, the _strength_ of him. He felt so _alive_.

Sam was so close, his breath was hot against Dean's lips, his hands still moving slowly over Dean's bare flesh.

Dean gasped for air, swallowing the urge to lean forward. _God_, How had he managed to push it all aside? Why? His lashes fluttered closed and he leaned forward and pressed his lips against his brother's again. He felt a shudder pass through Sam, he felt him press closer. Dean moaned softly and his parted lips drew Sam in.

The years of resisting fell away, and Dean leaned in, he finally lifted heavy arms to wrap them around his brother's broad shoulders. He held on, he held on as tight as he always had... but this time, there was no reason not to feel it, and no reason to let go.


End file.
